The Heart's Greatest Paradox
by Darkness' Embrace
Summary: "The quiet sense of something lost..." He'd never understood that part of Tennyson's poem, but when he was with her, he realized it had nothing to do with love at all. She just hadn't figured that part out yet. Rosalie, Emmett, and calculus. AH/OOC.
1. Chapter 1

**DISCLAIMER: I do not own the Twilight Series.**

 **WARNING: This story contains references to sexual violence.**

* * *

 **THE HEART'S GREATEST PARADOX**

I was going to Waterloo University, but I didn't have to like it. That was my thought process, at least when I first arrived. The campus was large but not sprawling like the University of Toronto's was, but unlike Toronto's ivy-covered buildings that seemed to scream scholastic whimsy, Waterloo was a solid network of blockish grey buildings that were strongly reminiscent of the brutalist-era architecture of days gone past.

Suffice to say, I was not pleased with my first impression of what was to be my home for the next four years.

I was a pink-wearing, ice-skating, bikini-top skiing kind of girl, which seemed to be completely at odds with the world I was now inhabiting. I'd met a number of people in the last few hours, most of them male, and most of them decidedly unfortunate in appearance and manner. I'd always tried not to live up to the blue-eyed blonde stereotype and give people the benefit of the doubt no matter what their appearance, but most people don't even bother _pretending_ not to judge me. If you hadn't guessed, it's made me a little jaded.

But there I was, majoring in particle physics even though I really only had a slightly above average IQ, and trying in vain to prove every single person wrong who looked at me and thought that I was just a decently pretty face without much between the ears.

* * *

Emmett McCarty was the last person I expected to see, especially as my calculus TA. To put it plainly, I had exiled myself to Waterloo for two reasons: one, the tuition was weirdly cheap compared to other comparable schools, and two, it was a place that I had been almost sure no one from my hometown would be attending. I had even Facebook creeped as many of my old classmates as I could to ascertain just that fact, and stupidly, I'd thought I was in the clear. But Emmett McCarty? He was someone I'd overlooked, which should have been hard to do considering he was about 6'4" and built like an ox.

Tutorials are sort of like a scheduled study group run by a 3rd or 4th year student in the discipline. Unlike first year lectures, they're small enough to allow for all those high school niceties like going around the room and introducing yourself. I had been looking forward to it because I thought this would be a good way to make friends, something I generally wasn't the best at. But as soon as I saw that tall, broad-shouldered form that moved with a panther's grace that I remembered so well even though I shouldn't really (Emmett and I were never more than acquaintances and classmates), I felt my throat seize up and panic take hold.

I had been counting on this being a fresh start. Seeing Royce King's best friend on my first day of classes was the last thing I needed.

"Alright everyone, before we begin and get into the nitty gritty of the work you've been assigned, we're going to briefly introduce ourselves so we're not collaborating with complete strangers," Emmett began, his soft, familiar monotone that left everything to the listener's interpretation ringing in my ears.

"My name is Emmett McCarty, and I'm a third year student pursuing a specialist major in pure mathematics. I'm sure you'll realize over the course of your time in the mathematics department that us pure math folks do the thinking, and the people over in applied do the solving. What can I say? It's a symbiotic relationship," he delivered the joke smoothly and without inflection, which made it seem funnier than it actually was.

After the laughter died down, we went around the room introducing ourselves. Most of the other students were a little awkward and geeky looking, not that I held that against them. I didn't discriminate when it came to friendships, not anymore at least. I was definitely the odd one out from a physical perspective, and I couldn't help but marvel at how in the past I'd always felt proud and special because of my admittedly nicely put together face and body. But since the whole Royce King debacle two years ago, when people noticed my 50's movie star looks it made me want to crawl into my shell like a turtle and curl up to die.

So naturally, when it was my turn to introduce myself, I froze up, and stammered out my name like a twelve year-old boy asking a girl to dance in a gymnasium with a disco ball suspended from the ceiling.

I looked down the whole time, managing to spit out, "I'm R-Rosalie Hale. Hi,"

I didn't say my age or discipline like everyone else had, and I was thankful when nobody pressed me for it. When I finally had the courage to look up, Emmett was paying attention to the boy beside me.

Ethan, 18, from Sault St. Marie.

As I watched Emmett's eyes, I hated myself for the over-perceptiveness that was both a blessing and a curse, because I could tell he had recognized me, and I wasn't sure how he felt about it.

I'd never known Emmett well, the only times I'd ever interacted with him being through my ex-boyfriend, Royce. Emmett had always struck me as something of a paradox. He was good-looking, with a solid build and soft brown hair that lay thickly over his forehead like mink fur. He was, of course, a linebacker on the varsity football team, and he was a star. In addition, I'd heard that he graduated as valedictorian of our class. It seemed too much for one person, but Emmett had shouldered his responsibilities and pressures and obligations with a soldierly single-mindedness that had always intimidated me and everyone else around him. He was popular with girls, but I never remembered him having much time for them. Generally quiet, but not soft-spoken or shy, he had a rather terse seriousness about him that made you think twice before saying anything for fear of wasting his time.

As I watched him watch the students sitting in a loose semi-circle fanning out to my right, I was filled with a deep and abiding sense of shame. We were born in the same year, and here we were, me just beginning my first year of university, and him, sitting in his TA chair about to impart to us his vast wisdom. Rosalie Hale, two years too late. The idea that I was so behind was not something I regretted, nor was it something I was proud of, especially then, as Emmett McCarty, in all his cold brilliance, didn't even bother acknowledging that once, before my great fall from grace, we had been equals.

* * *

Most of the girls at Waterloo, the ones I saw, anyway, had a similar look about them. Bookish and often plain, some were cute and some were not, with the resident few knockouts that every university has in some quantity. Emmett McCarty's girlfriend was one of the latter, and she, like me, didn't really fit the mould. Her first name was Crystalina, and she was absolutely gorgeous, but, as I couldn't help but notice ruefully, as different from me as chalk from cheese.

She had warm, caramel-coloured skin and dark brown hair with what I'm sure were natural blondey highlights, and tall, lissome limbs with a markedly latin cast to her exotic features. She was sexy, but she also had that thin, supermodel delicacy that I had always been jealous of.

Studying the two of them across the Starbucks I was seated in, I reasoned that she was about 5'8", a good five inches taller than my 5'3". I quickly snapped my eyes away and got up, throwing out the rest of my green tea as I realized that I was fast approaching the stage of serious creep. It had been three weeks since the beginning of classes, but I hadn't been back to the weekly calculus tutorial since that first day. It was sheer cowardice, and I felt a wave of disgust at myself. It was bad enough that Emmett McCarty and his personal life were weighing so heavily on my mind, it was time that they stopped dictating my actions as well.

* * *

I gathered up all of my courage, and knocked on the wall beside the little cubicle that was Emmett's TA office. He looked up, and his hazel eyes flashed with recognition before they deadened again. Even in highschool, I can remember never having met someone so immune to small talk as Emmett McCarty, and this moment was no exception. Most people would start a little conversation out of pure courtesy. After all, we had been acquaintances, even mutual friends, once. But not this man. The idea that Emmett McCarty was completely indifferent to my existence admittedly stung my pride, but I had learned well how to put my pride under the table when necessary, so that's what I did.

"I'm so sorry to interrupt, but I just wanted to thank you for being so discreet about… everything. Since I've been here, I mean," I stammered, the words tripping over themselves on the way out.

Emmett offered me a tight smile, but I could see anger tightening the corners of his eyelids. It was small, but it made my hands shake, and I hated myself for that.

His answer was flat. "Of course. You don't ever have to worry about me saying anything," he clipped. His words felt almost hostile, but I am known for my oversensitivity.

I tried to be strong and brave and mature, as I carried out this formal conversation with my TA, but I just felt ashamed, because Emmett McCarty obviously resented me, and there was nothing I could do about it.

I nodded my thanks once, just as terse as he, minus my trembling hands, but didn't bother saying goodbye.

* * *

My lawyer called me, just wanting to check in, she said. She was one of those women I'd disliked onsite, but then secretly grown to appreciate the more I'd gotten to know her. She was medium height but possessed of a slim, boyish figure that made her seem taller. If I had to use one word to describe Vera Matthews, it would be _crusader_. Women's rights were her avenue, her meaning in life, she told me, and a case like mine had been perfect for her. Mine was the best sort of cause for her to champion, because there had been nobody else to do it for me.

"Rosalie, hun, how are you doing at the new school? Everything going smoothly?" she probed lightly, her voice low but smooth.

"I'm fine, Vera. Everything is great," I tried to sound sincere, but I'm not sure how effective it was.

"Well..," she paused, and I started to get nervous. Vera never paused.

"Please, just spit it out, Vera," I said tiredly. "I'm a big girl, I can take it,"

She sighed, then blurted, "Royce King's parole is under review in a few weeks,"

Vera stopped to let the sentence sink in, then continued, "Now don't fret, because there's nothing you need to do or worry about. It's all very routine —," she tried to explain, but I cut her off.

"It's been less than two years. How is this possible? I thought he was sentenced to twelve years without parole?" I was outraged, but my words came out dry and sad. Royce King had taken too much from me already.

Vera's voice changed suddenly, and I knew that she was very, very, angry about something, but trying not to let it leak into her tone.

"Rosalie, I'm not going to sugarcoat this, because you deserve the truth. The older Mr. Royce King has friends in very high circles. We managed to evade his influence during the actual trial, largely thanks to your own father's support, but it seems that our luck isn't holding. I doubt he will be paroled at this first hearing, but honey, I have to warn you that there will be many more to come, and well, it's looking like that twelve year sentence won't be quite as long as we'd hoped…,"

Vera was still talking, but I was only listening with a small corner of my brain. The rest of it was consumed by a life, a life that would inevitably become my reality, of looking around every corner and seeing that head of fine blond hair, his purple x-ray eyes boring into me, promising pain for everything I'd done to him. It was terrifying.

"Rosalie, listen to me," My attention snapped back to Vera's voice, but my mind was still filled with images of the boy who looked like an angel to everyone but me.

"I want you to remember that no matter how much of just a slap on the wrist this horrible man gets, it does not in any way reduce the severity of what he did to you," Vera told me in firm notes.

She went on in that necessary and appreciated way people do, but this time, it didn't help. _It's not your fault. You did nothing to deserve this._

I felt an emotion I couldn't name well in my throat and push up under my esophagus. It was a large portion anger, but all directed inward, laced with pride and regret and sprinkled with disgust. It tasted like failure in my mouth, and as I threw up in the metal trash can under my desk, I realized that it was shame. Fear and shame had been a part of me for two long years, and now they were both raising their ugly heads and corroding me from the inside out.

I realized then that no matter how many times people I cared about told me _it wasn't my fault_ , there were more than enough people, including myself, telling me that it _was_ my fault, that I _had_ deserved it.

And for the same reason women stay with husbands who hurt them and rape victims choose to shut their mouths instead of talking, I believed them.

* * *

 **TO BE CONTINUED...**


	2. Chapter 2

**DISCLAIMER: I do not own the Twilight series.**

 **WARNING: This story contains references to sexual violence.**

* * *

 **THE HEART'S GREATEST PARADOX**

I was not math-brained. I recognized this in high school, but I had always managed to make up for my lack of natural capability with sheer hard work and practice. After all, very few people are actually born with the ability to easily pick up differential calculus without some serious effort.

It didn't help that the parole hearing was looming closer and closer with each passing week. Vera said I didn't have to go, but the fact that it was happening at all was enough to make me break out in a cold sweat. I continued to soldier through my classes, even my calculus tutorial, through sheer force of will. It was too easy to feel sorry for myself, and I did, a lot more than what was healthy. But I also made a point of trying to remind myself that I wasn't the only person going through something difficult right now. In fact, I was downright lucky. I had food and nice clothes and I was pursuing higher education. I was lucky.

But the fact that I knew this to be true only made it all the more pathetic when I had to leave my physical chemistry lecture because a boy sitting a few rows in front of my had flyaway blonde hair that glinted and shifted in the artificial light like specks of dust in a mote. I had retreated to one of the library study hutches, and willed myself to cry. I'd read in a book that it was much healthier to let all of those toxic emotions out — it gave one closure. But as I sat there and felt the bubbling, caustic fear burn away, I was physically unable to give into tears, no matter how much I wanted to. Instead, a dead sort of numbing acceptance that felt like a lead weight spread through my chest, and I got up and left the library, recognizing my own weakness, and vowing that it could not happen again.

* * *

At my next calculus tutorial, I decided to buck up my courage and finally ask for some help. I had taken a very passive role in the class, just sitting in the back and letting everyone else do the talking and asking, only because I did not want to have to deal with Emmett McCarty and the resentment and hostility that I was sure he harboured against me. But when I received a 46% on my first calculus test, I realized I didn't want to sacrifice academic success for the sake of my pride.

I waited until about ten minutes from the end of the tutorial, when most of the other students' pressing questions had been asked and answered, before I nervously approached Emmett's desk and cleared my throat. He was working on deriving something that looked like pig latin to me, his handwriting tiny and neatly-formed, utterly controlled and contained just like the rest of him.

"What can I do for you, Rosalie?" he asked politely, but there was a wariness in his eyes that made me nervous.

I'd never stuttered in my life, except, it seemed, in conversation with Emmett McCarty.

"I-I was h-h-having some trouble with one of the derivatives. I t-think it's because of the l-l-logarithms. I'm not really used to them yet…," I trailed off, wanting to bang my head against a wall. I sounded like a scared fourth grader in front of the principal.

I could tell that Emmett was a little weirded out by my stuttering and general awkwardness, when the Rosalie he remembered was a smooth-talking prom queen always ready with a witty reply.

I sat down in the chair beside his, and tried to focus on nothing but the problem as he explained the steps to solving it. It was hard though, because I hadn't been this close to him since before _everything_ , and I felt cold fear creep through my limbs. I reminded myself to be rational. He hadn't been there. He hadn't been one of the ones who had hurt me. Just because he was Royce's friend, it didn't mean he was capable of what Royce was.

I thought I was doing a pretty good job of being nonchalant, until Emmett's arm brushed mine as he reached over to grab an eraser. My reaction wasn't wild, but it was instantaneous and uncontrollable. I flinched visibly, pressing my arm in to the soft hollow of my stomach and rolling my shoulders forward in a self-protective pose. Emmett stilled for a moment as he took in my posture. He withdrew his arm quickly and scooted his chair away from mine, and when he spoke, his voice was flat, his hazel eyes hard as chips of moldavite.

He finished explaining the solution to the problem, but I knew I was not overanalyzing as I recognized the real anger in his voice. It scared me, but I didn't blame him. It seemed everything scared me these days.

I got up to leave, murmuring, "Thanks for your time. I appreciate the help,"

I waited for his response, but he studiously focused on his own math problem, and a bone-snapping tension emanated from him and filled the air in the now empty lecture hall. I waited another few beats for him to say "you're welcome", or "no worries,", just something polite! But he didn't, and I felt my own anger and sadness and fear rise like a tide from the corners of my heart.

My voice cracked through the air like a whip. "Emmett, I know you blame me for your best friend being locked up in prison like an animal," I paused to rub my hand across my cheek, realizing tears were leaking from my waterline.

"But I'm not going to apologize, because he deserves it. At least that's what I'm trying to convince myself of. A-and, if hating me is what you want to do, then I understand,"

My steam ran out, and my loud, angry, bitter voice was reduced to nothingness, my next words so garbled by tears and snot that I couldn't even understand them myself.

"But I really, really, wish you wouldn't. I wish you wouldn't h-hate me," I hiccuped, my voice breathy and weak and just as pathetic-sounding as I felt.

He looked so angry sitting there, like a caged animal with clenched fists, the tendons in his neck pulled taut. He looked like he was going to explode, and an exploding Emmett McCarty was not a storm I could weather.

So I turned, and I scurried out of the room like a kicked puppy with my tail between my legs, and tried to tell myself that everything was going to be okay.

* * *

Weeks passed, and life went on. I didn't go to any parties (not that I was invited to any), and I tried to focus on studies. I'd always read books about people who were able to lose themselves in their studies — to immerse themselves in a diet of equations and theorems and ideas. But for me, there was something very concrete missing. I was jumpy and flinchy and I felt tired all the time, the circles under my eyes dark purple and bruised-looking no matter how much concealer I attempted to mask them with.

I was surprised at the toxic bitterness tinged with a horrified jealousy that welled in my stomach when I saw Emmett McCarty walking with his arm around his girlfriend. Her beauty was like a beacon, and there was something about the gentleness of his hand on her waist that made me feel like a complete trollop. Boys had always liked my body — I had large breasts and a small waist, but in comparison to Crystalina's elegant beauty I looked overweight and stumpy. Everyone had hang-ups about their looks, I tried to remind myself, probably even Emmett McCarty's beautiful girlfriend.

What struck me most about the two of them was his proprietary nature towards her. He obviously cared for her, treasured her even, and there was something serious in the way he angled his body towards hers.

Something that spoke of devotion.

It was strange to me, because I had always regarded Emmett as someone who was too focused and ambitious for love. I remember thinking that the girl who ended up with him would have to content herself with playing second fiddle to his career and his Einstein-esque dreams. It seemed, however, that I had been wrong. This caused a pang in my chest, because it was obvious that Crystalina had a quality, an edgy sort of brilliance in her own right that made Emmett regard her as fundamentally important and above all other things. I'd seen this quality in other women so obviously adored by their men, and it hurt me in a deep, fundamental way, because I knew that it was not a quality I possessed.

The only relationships I'd had had been based on superficiality. Nobody had ever been interested in the most secret territories of my heart, and as I observed Emmett McCarty laughing in a way I had never seen him laugh before, holding his beautiful girlfriend, I came to the conclusion that it was more than likely nobody ever would be.

* * *

When Vera called and told me that Emmett McCarty had spoken at Royce's parole hearing, I hung up on her, smashing the phone into the cradle like I should've kicked Royce's face in when he put his grimy, murderous hands on me. I felt something deep inside me fracture. I tried to focus on the outcome — Royce King was still incarcerated, and wouldn't be eligible for another appeal until six months had passed. I had six more months to breathe.

But the fact that Emmett McCarty had tried to help free the man who had done so much irreparable damage to me was almost too much to bear. He had seen me stuttering and nervous and scared, humbled and vulnerable in a way that I had only been when terrible things were being done to me, and still, he had chosen to attempt to unleash the monster that had made me this way.

I knew that to him, the monster was just a man. In fact, he was a man that he had loved like a brother. But the fact that he knew of his monstrous side and hadn't given a thought to his victims, namely me, made my heart shatter in my chest.

Despite my pain, I walked to the threshold of that calculus tutorial. I stood there, on the outside looking in, and I could see Emmett's tall, broad profile. I was late. As I watched him speak, gesturing with his hands, another body superimposed itself over his sharp form, a smaller, leaner man with white blond hair and a cruel eye-teeth smile. He turned to look at me, and warm hazel eyes morphed into a frigid blue.

The sob that choked me was like a tsunami in a matchbox, and I knew I couldn't step into the room without setting it free.

I turned frantically, and I ran.

When I think back to this moment, I wonder what I would have seen if I had turned around one last time. Would I have seen Royce's brilliant blue eyes, so violent and horrifying in their beauty? Or would I have seen what really was?

Maybe, just maybe I would have seen the slightly broken-looking hazel eyes of a man lost in his own choices, swimming in the same helpless, horrified shame that Pilate must have felt as he sentenced the Son of God to death on a cross.

* * *

 **TO BE CONTINUED...**


End file.
